


Down in the Tube Station at Midnight

by tyroneslothrop



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Homophobia, London Underground, M/M, Songfic, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyroneslothrop/pseuds/tyroneslothrop
Summary: Phil goes out to get a takeaway curry. He doesn't come back.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you've heard The Jam song of the same name, you already know how this one ends.

The rumbling of trains and distant cries… he can faintly decipher the odd “Goodbye” in there. It’s all that rings in Phil’s ears as he descends down the steps, the echo of his boots sometimes joining the rubble.

The place is barren, and the faint reek of donner kebab and pakora sauce hits him, making him recoil. All that can be seen on those grey, glazed tiles is sweetie wrappers and polystyrene containers. There’s a barrage of the morning newspapers fluttering against a bench. Phil can make out a few headlines. THERESA MAY DECLARES… the headline stops there. There’s the disembodied torso of a page 3 girl – they’re still a thing? – and a man got run down near Buckingham Palace yesterday.

He sticks his hands in his pockets, rumbles about. A faint ‘chink, chink’ echoes against the walls. He’s got enough, he thinks.

Dan text him 10 minutes ago, asking if he’d got lost in the underground. Phil just responded with a silly emoji. He thinks of Dan at home. He wants him to text again. He wants to hear a faint buzz go off. The silence….

Unnerved, he rustles in his pockets, makes his way to the ticket machine. Places the curry at his feet. Dan was craving takeaway tonight, and apparently the Indian close to them wasn’t enough. He wanted that swanky one they had when they were out that one time. Phil, being an obliging husband, took the tube there.

He types Holloway into the machine, fingers trembling. Before he can pay…

Something.

He thought he heard something.

A boot stomping vaguely into the silence, a muttering of voices.

He quickly slams the coins in and rips his ticket from the machine. Before he can turn around, a voice.

Those boots, again.

“Haw, you got any money on you?”

There’s sweat stuck to his back. He turns around, trembling.

Three men. Skinheads. Scowls on their faces. Furrowed eyebrows. The man in the front, his fists are clenched. He can smell cheap beer off them, and their shirts are stained amber from it.

His arms quiver, he nearly drops the ticket, and for the first time in years Phil hates himself.

“I… I don’t have much,” his voice is high and faint, but it still manages to echo, thundering, boomeranging against the walls and tiles. “I spent my money on the ticket and the curry, I, my husband, I…”

Maybe husband wasn’t the right thing to say. Their eyebrows furrow more, and their knuckles begin to turn red.

“I…” Phil tries. He chokes on the rest of the sentence.

He hears another echo roar through the building, and it takes a while to realise it was his own skull that made it. Then the pain sets in.

There’s a hand fumbling through his jacket, and he feels a great weight being removed from his body. Then there’s stomping. A faint jangling sound. He can’t move. He can’t chase them. His throat and jaw refuse to co-operate. It’s like he’s caught in a paroxysm of numbness, he can barely feel his muscles.

The pain of the blow itself was ebbing away into a quiet nothingness.

He tries to move.

No avail.

He thinks of Dan at home. He’s probably got the table lain out, matching mats and everything. Because he’s a dork like that. Maybe he’s gotten a bottle of wine out. That Prosecco stuff he likes so much, the stuff he makes Phil buy for him whenever he’s in Tesco. He’s probably got the sparkly wine glasses out. Polished. Sat at the table.

Maybe he’s drumming his fingers on the kitchen counter, gazing impatiently at the clock. Maybe he’s itching to text him, ask him where he is. Maybe he’s already text him, but he hasn’t got it. Because maybe they took his phone.

Suddenly.

His wallet.

They took his wallet.

They have his ID.

They have his keys.

Is there anything in his wallet that has his address on it? He tries to think. Tries to raise his head. Another ‘thunk’ sounds around him.

If they unlocked the door… Dan would cry down at them. He’d say “Hello honey” in that silly voice he does. He’d think it was Phil.

He tries to move.

Again.

The last thing he feels before he loses consciousness is the curry next to him, slowly losing its heat against the cold tiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, troops.


End file.
